O England, can you hear it
Without a blush of shame?
Our lay, they mean to queer it,
And stop our little game.
It’s right down mean and sneaking—
They’re going to give the blues,
To stop their boots from creaking,
New indiarubber shoes.
It makes a Briton shirty,
And sets his hair on end,
To think to tricks so dirty
The law should condescend,—
That in the land of freedom
And honourable views,
The slops, e’en though they need ’em,
Should walk in silent shoes.
Fair play they say’s a jewel;
There’s honour among thieves;
But this new dodge is cruel—
For look how it deceives!
Our Mayor should call a meeting—
His lordship can’t refuse—
Denouncing law competing
With crime in silent shoes.
It’s hard enough at present
For us to earn our bread,
And always most unpleasant
To hear the peeler’s tread;
But we between starvation
And honesty must choose,
If once the British nation
Allows these blarsted shoes.